An Apple A Day
by OldStoneface
Summary: Myria explores her more artistic side. Created for a 1 hour fic challenge.


_**The rights to The Discworld and its characters created by Terry Pratchett are owned by Terry Pratchett and his publishers. All copyrights associated with the Discworld belong to them. Only the ideas and original characters in this work of fan fiction are my property. No profit is being derived from this story. Seriously guys, Pratchett is a genius. Go out and buy his books. Pratchett will thank you and so will I.**_

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"Myria are you trying to paint again?"

Myria quickly stepped away from the canvas she had purchased that day. Nearby on the white tabletop sat a single apple, the epitome of appleness. It was red, yes it was. And shiny. There was even a bit of stem with a single green leaf sticking off of it. If one had to look at something and say "hey, now THAT is an apple," this would be it. It practically screamed "paint me! I am apple! Hear me… er… make whatever sound an apple would make."

Myria crossed her arms and dipped her head, leaving a red streak on her blouse in the process. "I… I cannot seem to help myself. It… _gnaws_ at me Jonathon."

Jonathon shook his head and looked both amused and slightly pained. "Myria we go through this every week. You are a _fantastic_ person, I love you dearly, and you have many talents. But artistic expression. It's… it's just not one of them dear."

The knuckles of Myria's left hand tightened on the brush. "But it is not… it is not _correct_… it is not _fair_! I can _see_ the apple there, on the table. All that is required is to choose the correct pigments and transfer them to the white canvas. It is _obvious_. It is so _simple_! Why? Why can I not do it?"

"Honestly, Myria, I don't know. It does seem like it should be easy, doesn't it? But it just isn't that simple. Myria a LOT of people can't paint, or draw, or sculpt."

He was starting to use his 'careful tone' with her. She hated when he started using his 'careful tone' with her. "This makes no sense. All humans breathe, and see, and most of them have functional hands and arms to use. Why can they not do such a simple thing as combine colors on canvas? Why can _I_ not!"

Jonathon carefully eased a bit closer, not taking his eyes off of the paintbrush which appeared to be slowly bending in the middle and becoming slightly fuzzy. "Look, why don't we go out and… and… you can calculate the volume taken up by the cobblestones on one of the streets again. You enjoyed that right? We could do God Street and-"

"153,562 cubic feet of cobblestones Jonathon," she snapped. He paused and blinked.

"Okayyy... how about Cunning Artificers, we could-" he stopped at her glare. "Fine… ok. No cobblestones today."

Myria huffed, looked at the brush, which was quickly looking more like a wooden pretzel, and set it down quickly. Picking up another one, she muttered to herself. "It should be simple… it requires five percent more… more red pigment of octarine frequency 4x10 to the 14th power hertz. Yes. Yes this is correct." She dabbed the brush with more force than was required. Jonathon closed his eyes and swallowed.

Gently dabbing at first, then frowning as her movements became more jerking, Myria worked a few more seconds. She stopped and pulled away from the canvas again. The temperature in the room decreased by several degrees as she quietly viewed the result.

"Jonathon."

"Myria really, it's not your fault. It's just one of those things that you just can't pin down."

"Jonathon come here please."

He shuddered. "Really, I don't think-" the temperature dropped a few more degrees. He swore he could see frost forming on the easel "um… ok." He hurried over to stand beside her and appraised the result of her work.

On the white canvas shown a thing. It was the epitome of _thingness_. It was red, yes it was. And blotchy. There was even a bit of brown and green near the top. If one had to look at something and say "hey, now THAT is an apple," they would most definitely leave the room as quickly as possible to go find one.

"Er…"

Myria calmly set down the paintbrush, turned and began putting on her 'walking shoes' as she called them. "Let us go evaluate the chemical composition of the River Ankh today. I do not feel… _artistic_ today."

"Yes. Yes of course!" He hurried to grab his cloak and followed her out, thinking all the while _well, _that_ went better than I expected._

As he turned to close the door behind him, he felt a slight rush of air and watched in bemused dismay as easel, canvas, and apple imploded and then *poofed* into a mushroom cloud of small grey particles. Shaking his head, he finished locking up and rushed to catch up with Myria, who was walking quickly and rather stiffly toward the river.

_Well, at least this time she didn't take the table with it…_


End file.
